


Runaway

by eddycocaine



Category: Bandom, The Academy Is...
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 19:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7450963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddycocaine/pseuds/eddycocaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike likes to think of himself as well-adjusted. And usually, he is. Most of the time, he forgets he ever lived in a bus. But, come on. Can he honestly be expected to not reminisce when he’s being shoved headfirst into some romantic comedy bullshit?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runaway

**Author's Note:**

> [I made a playlist for this fic, if you're at all interested in that sort of thing.](https://open.spotify.com/user/silverfcking/playlist/3xV6FcM36fBk8uhxELX8Qv)

Mike Carden’s phone is ringing. The sun isn’t up yet. It’s definitely too early for anyone to be calling. Also, he has a massive hangover, so he’s in no mood to talk to anyone. And even though the chances of it being important are slim, he rolls over anyway, slaps his hand on the nightstand, and searches blindly for his phone. His roaming hand bumps his glasses and they clatter to the floor and slide beneath his bed. He leaves them and squints into the bright light of his phone screen, which reads, “William Beckett (maybe don’t answer)”. 

The phone continues to vibrate and ring loudly in Mike’s hand. He sighs. They haven’t talked in seven years and eight months (but who’s counting?). He doesn’t want to answer, but the fact that William is calling so early kind of makes Mike think it might be important.

He clears his throat and answers, “You realize you’re two hours ahead of me, right?”

William sighs.  _This is going well_ , Mike thinks.

“I need you to pick me up at LAX in four and a half hours.”

“What?”

William repeats himself.

Mike exhales heavily and presses his fingers into one of his eyes. It relieves the tension at his temples for a second. “Why?”

William answers with a shuddering breath. Mike holds back a groan. He’s familiar with the sound, though he can’t remember the last time he heard it. He turns the light on his nightstand on, and this time, he accidentally knocks his watch to the floor. It joins his glasses under the bed but he leaves it there too. He’s actually a little bit concerned about William, if he’s honest. He sits up in bed, his legs still tangled in the sheets. “What’s wrong?”

He tries not to sound exasperated, but it’s pretty hard. It’s three-thirty in the morning and he’s hungover. And this isn’t the first time William’s called on the verge of a mental breakdown. Mike feels his exasperation is justified.

“Evie ran away.”

Mike runs a hand through his thinning hair, exhales, and falls back onto his pillows. “Shit. What?”

“Yeah, we got in some stupid argument a week ago. She wanted to go down to LA to meet some boy she met online or whatever. We said no, obviously. I mean, that’s reasonable, right?” It’s a rhetorical question and William doesn’t wait for Mike to answer it. “It didn’t make her too happy and she didn’t talk to us for a few days but we thought she got over it. I mean, she started talking to us again.” William sighs. “She left for school on Friday and said she was gonna spend the night at a friend’s. But when Christine went to pick her up the next day, she wasn’t there. Georgianne – Evie’s friend – says Evie never even came over.”

“Fuck.” It’s all Mike can think to say.

“We immediately called the bank. Someone bought a one-way ticket to LA with Christine’s card. We’re pretty sure that’s not a coincidence. So, I’m coming down, see if I can find her.”

Mike doesn’t know what to say. They’re both silent on the phone for moment. Mike thinks it’s pretty nice, considering the circumstances. William’s forced calm isn’t soothing, per se, but it’s familiar and comfortable. Mike likes familiar and comfortable.

“I really need you right now, Mike.” William pauses. “I could use a friend. And a place to stay.”

Mike can tell William is manipulating him, but this time feels different.

“Alright, alright,” Mike says, pushing the rest of _Slow Down_ out of his mind. “I’ll pick you up, you can stay here for as long as you need to, whatever. But, I mean, I gotta tell you, man, I’m not gonna be home all day. I, uh, you know, have a life. And a job. And, like, things to do.”

“I – I didn’t expect you to sit around and twiddle your thumbs with me. I just – I just need – yeah. Just some support.”

“Well, good. Because that’s all I can give you right now.”

Silence again, spare for William’s continued forced calm. But then Mike hears the  _bing_  of O’Hare’s boarding call. “Shit! I gotta go.” William’s voice competes with the boarding instructions overhead. “I’ll text you my flight information once I board.”

“Okay, sure. Have a safe flight.”

“Thanks, Mike. And, uh, _thanks_.”

William hangs up before Mike can dislodge the  _no problem_  that got stuck in his throat.

Mike stretches out again and lets his phone get lost in the sheets. His head continues to spin and it’s not because he’s still hungover – even though he is still hungover. In four hours, he’ll be seeing someone he hasn’t seen in eight years (okay, seven years and eight months, but again, who’s counting?). Someone, now that he thinks of it, he isn’t at all prepared to see.

The call seemed to drag on for hours, but according to Mike’s phone, it only took a few minutes. And even though he wants to go back to sleep, Mike’s mind is awake and racing. He knows that regardless of how comfortable he gets, he won’t be able to fall asleep again. But that doesn’t keep him from lying in bed awhile longer, thinking of all the things he could have said to fill the long gaps in their conversation.

\--

Mike is at LAX, absently watching the steps of one of the many escalators disappear one by one. He’s so exhausted that for a minute or two, he was actually trying to count how many steps were in the escalator. When he realizes that he’s counting an endless loop of escalator steps, he shakes his head and smiles to himself, thinking,  _What the fuck am I doing?_

He straightens in his seat and checks his watch. He’s been sitting here for an hour now. Mike doesn’t know why he’s surprised, but William’s flight was delayed. William always had the worst luck with airplanes. According to the arrivals and departures board, William’s plane landed twenty minutes ago. If nothing went wrong with his baggage, he should be coming down the escalator at any moment. And yet, here he is. Waiting. At the airport. For William. Again.

Another fifteen minutes go by, and at last, a wave of people come down the escalator. Mike can see William’s head peeking out over the rest of them. His hair is short again, disheveled and graying. It makes Mike smile, if only for a second. He’s glad to see he’s not the only one wearing his age.

They do not hug or appear excited to see one another, but William offers a crooked smile and a shrug. Mike accepts the gesture, nods, and asks, “Wanna eat?”

Mike takes William to a greasy spoon a couple of miles from LAX. The short drive doesn’t give William the chance to properly interrogate Mike – and Mike certainly senses the forced silence. He smirks. He hates it when William grills him. It’s not something he missed.

Not that he missed anything about William, mind you.

Mike is more of a Saturday morning regular at the diner, so the Sunday morning crowd is unfamiliar to him. When the host asks where they’d like to sit, Mike immediately glances at the counter and finds that an incredibly old man is sitting in his preferred seat. Mike frowns when he says a booth is fine.

The host seats them and gives them menus. Mike pretty much already knows what he’s getting but pretends to look at his menu anyway.  He doesn’t want William to know how routine and mundane his life has become. That can wait.

A waiter comes – it’s Scott, actually – and fills both of their coffee cups without asking.  He puts a hand on Mike’s shoulder and says, “We missed you yesterday morning.”

Mike gets hot behind the ears and smiles uncomfortably. Scott winks and Mike’s pretty sure William notices. “Yeah, uh, some stuff came up.”

William raises his eyebrows at Mike as he stirs a packet of sugar into his coffee. He waits until Scott leaves and is well out of earshot before asking, “Friend of yours?”

“No.” It comes out of Mike’s mouth much too quickly. “I mean, he’s been pouring me coffee for the better part of a year.”

The rest of Mike’s explanation gets stuck in his throat. William gives Mike an amused look before slipping behind his menu. A few minutes later, he emerges and sets the menu aside. He opens his mouth to say something but Scott comes back with a pen and pad, poised for taking down orders. William looks up at him and smiles.

Scott smiles back at William and asks, “What can I get you, dear?”

“Is your Denver omelette, like, really good?”

It’s kind of a dumb question. Of course their Denver omelette is really good. But William has no way of knowing that, so Mike feels bad for rolling his eyes.

Scott gestures to the smattering of framed newspaper articles and magazine clippings behind William. William twists in his seat to see that they are, in fact, known for their Denver omelette. “I guess I’ll be having your famous Denver omelette then.”

Scott takes the menu from William and says, “And let me guess, Mike. You’ll be having  _huevos rancheros_ this morning.”

“I was gonna have  _huevos rancheros_ this morning, Scott, thank you. But I think I’m gonna have the Denver omelette instead. That sounds really good right now.” Mike smiles back at him, more comfortably this time, and hands over his menu. William is still watching him, his eyebrows quirked. “Thanks. And, uh, can we get some Tabasco because we seem to be missing Tabasco.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

Mike expects William to make some sort of comment about Scott. But William surprises him and changes the subject. “So, I noticed your number hasn’t changed in all these years.”

“Neither has yours.”

It’s only then that Mike realizes either one of them could have broken the eight-year silence. The air seems to get a little stiffer.

“So, that job you were talking about. You mean that thing with Gabe? The Artist Group?”

“Oh, um, no. No. A different job.” William raises his eyebrows. “Yeah. I don’t know what happened to that. It wasn’t meant to be, I guess.”

“So…are you going to tell me what you’re doing these days or am I going to have to Rumpelstiltskin this out of you?”

“I mean...you’re gonna laugh.”

“I promise I won’t.” Mike gives William a disbelieving look and William smiles. “You’re killing me, Mike.”

Mike considers William. William appears to be doing his absolute best to avoid the subject of his missing daughter and for now, Mike will respect that. He sighs. “I’m not sure you’re ready to hear this.”

“Mike. Come on.”

“Okay, okay. Um, I’m a teacher.” Mike’s face goes tomato red and William laughs. “I knew you were gonna fucking laugh. You know, my mom laughed when I told her. My own mother.”

“I’m only laughing because you’re probably the most impatient person I’ve ever met. I can’t imagine – I’m sorry.” William gives Mike a placating look. “What do you teach?”

“History – uh, American History. High school.” William shakes his head, a smile on his face. “I’m supposed to be an elementary school teacher, if that helps you digest it.”

William looks as if this information is not easier to digest. He bites something back, though Mike’s pretty sure it’s along the lines of, “You? Children?” But William says nothing, probably to avoid what could easily turn into an argument. After moments of silence, William finally asks, “How’d you figure this out?”

“That is a story for another day.” Mike says, and luckily, that’s when Scott comes back with the Tabasco.

William looks like he wants to push the subject, but much to Mike’s relief, he doesn’t.

After breakfast, Mike forces William to acknowledge his reason for being in LA and takes him to a police station to file a Missing Persons report.

When the detective asks William if he has a recent photo of Evie, William pulls an actual picture of her out of his wallet. Mike thinks it’s interesting that William has physical picture of her, considering it’s, like, 2024 and the world they live in is almost completely digital. William stutters that she took her yearbook picture on Thursday but they hadn’t gotten the photos back yet.

He shakes as the detective nods and takes the photograph. Mike wants to reach out and touch William, tether him to something steady and real. But he can’t work up the nerve, so he balls his fists in his pockets and waits.

\--

Mike doesn’t have high hopes for the rest of his Sunday.

The drive from the police station to Mike’s apartment takes over an hour. Technically, Mike’s apartment is only about twenty miles from the police station. But they got stuck in stop-and-go traffic the second they merged onto the freeway.

Traffic doesn’t usually bother Mike. He’s had time to adjust to it and now it gives him more opportunities to think. But today, he’s with William. And, if he’s honest, listening to William stutter his way through a phone call to Christine is unpleasant. He feels unsympathetic as he grinds his teeth. William apologizes and Mike assures him he’s only on edge because of the traffic but that’s a lie. And William knows it’s a lie.

They were always better with a table between them. If he was sitting across from William, he could look William in the eyes and play off body language. That’s all he needs to make sure a conversation is going in the right direction. Breakfast had gone great. Smooth sailing. But sitting next to William in stop-and-go traffic, Mike can’t read him. And he can’t be bothered to.

When they finally get to Mike’s apartment, William looks confused.

“What?”

“This is not where you lived last time I was here.”

“I moved.”

“Why?”

Mike gives him a blank stare before getting out of the car. He pops the trunk and pulls out William’s suitcase. William comes around and puts a hand on the trunk lid, preventing Mike from closing it. He makes eye contact with Mike – he means business – and asks, “You and Emma aren’t together anymore? Since when?”

Mike forces the trunk closed, locks the car, and walks toward the stairs leading up to his apartment. That’s William’s answer.

He hears the wheels of William’s suitcase rumbling on the asphalt behind him. He feels the white-hot heat of William’s stare but he forces himself to look ahead. William struggles with his suitcase up the stairs and Mike feels a little bit bad for not helping him. But not bad enough to turn around and face him.

Mike waits for William at the door. And when William finally gets there, red-faced and irritated, Mike unlocks the door and lets him in first. William takes a look around the apartment, noticing the stacks of paper scattered everywhere. He sees Mike’s open bedroom door, sees the unmade bed, the clothing piled in a heap next to it.

William turns back to Mike and says, “Nice.”

Mike shrugs, brushes past William, and starts compulsively tidying his apartment. William leaves his suitcase by the door and kicks off his shoes. Mike is sure one of them will trip over them before the day is over.

“Sorry about Emma. I didn’t know.”

“I thought Adam would have told you.”

“He told me you guys were as good as married.”

“We were. Like, eight years ago.”

“What happened?”

Mike frowns at William. “You’re serious? Adam didn’t tell you?” William shakes his head. “Yeah, I told him to stop updating me on your life too.”

“That’s not – I didn’t ask him…”

They both know William’s lying. Mike lets it slide. “It got weird. I don’t know.”

“Mike. Come on.” William looks like he wants to keep needling Mike but his phone starts ringing. He stops looking at Mike long enough to check it. “It’s my mom.”

William almost sounds apologetic. Mike doesn’t know why that is.

“I’ll go. I need to, uh, change the sheets on the bed anyway.” Mike points over his shoulder in the general direction of his bedroom.

“I can help. I really don’t want to take this.”

“You should, though.” Mike says, ruffling his hair. “It’s probably important.”

William wrinkles his nose at Mike. Mike sighs. “For fuck’s sake, you’re a grown man. Answer the phone.” And he storms off to the bedroom, where he is careful not to slam the door behind him even though he wants to.

He takes his frustration out on the sheets. Leave it to William to not age a single day in eight years.

William enters the room a few minutes later and kicks at the pile of sheets on the floor. “Are you done throwing your temper tantrum or should I wait in the kitchen?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Just help me put the fucking fitted sheet on, okay?”

Their relationship has always been this way and Mike would wager his life that it will always be this way. William does something stupid or says something stupid or thinks something stupid, Mike blows up at him, William makes a joke, flashes a crooked smile, and the anger rolls off Mike’s shoulders like beads of water.

Even when they would go months without speaking to each other, Mike knew he was only kidding himself. He’d always get over it after a few days. Then all he’d want to do is jump back into whatever they were doing before they pissed each other off. But he always held back, refusing to break his silence. Breaking the silence meant letting William win. And he can’t let William have that.

That’s what turned a few months of “time apart” into almost eight years. Mike doesn’t know who he hates more for letting that happen.

\--

Monday morning comes much too early.

Mike’s watch is beeping from far away. That’s what causes him to spring from the couch and tweak his neck. It’s not what wakes him up – the smell of coffee does that – but it _is_  what wakes William up. When Mike enters his room, William is holding one of Mike’s pillows over his head and groaning.

“I totally forgot.” Mike turns the alarm off and sets the watch down. “I’m sorry, man.”

William mumbles something like, “It’s fine,” and almost immediately falls asleep. Mike has always admired William’s ability to fall asleep after being woken up. Mike has never had that strength. He watches William for a moment and then returns to his morning routine.

Right before leaving, Mike sneaks back into his bedroom to get his watch. William is tangled in the sheets (the comforter in a pile on the floor), snoring at a believable volume. Mike’s pretty sure he’s asleep but a quiet, “Have a good day at school, Mr. Carden,” comes from the bed anyway. He doesn’t respond, just buckles his watch around his wrist and takes his leave.

\--

It’s the second week of the school year but the first Monday and it shows on every single face.

Mike eats his lunch alone in his classroom, folded uncomfortably under his desk. He keeps the lights off and the door locked, ensuring his students can’t get to him. He can hear the doorknob jiggling and the disappointed sighs. He knows he’s being stupid but he doesn’t care.

Halfway through third period, he realized William would be there when he got home. That hadn’t happened in years. Ages, really. They were both different people last time that happened. Shit, they were  _kids_.

Mike’s surprised at how easy it is to remember the night they wrote  _Season_. He remembers being dead-tired from a full six hours at school and a half-shift at The Gap. He remembers dropping his bag on the floor and collapsing on the couch. He remembers putting his arm over his eyes, and dropping off the second he sunk into the couch cushions. Next thing he knew, William was tossing a notebook on his stomach and saying, “Look this over, would you?”

The combination of something unexpectedly landing on his stomach and William’s sudden voice woke him with a start and nearly caused him to fall off the couch. He covered his face with his hands and tried to hide his embarrassment while William chuckled at him from above. Asshole.

Mike sat up, pushed his hair out of his face, and picked up the notebook. With lazy eyes, he skimmed the page, not taking in any of it. He made some noncommittal noise and handed the notebook back to William. He remembers William looking affronted, but he also remembers being too tired to care. Back then, the only things he cared about were sleep and getting more of it. Not much has changed.

He remembers putting his arm back over his eyes again and trying to ignore William, who was undoubtedly trying to set Mike on fire with only his eyes. And then he remembers William clicking his tongue, lifting Mike’s arm off his face, and saying, “Actually read it, asshole.”

William held Mike’s arm over his head until Mike gave him some actual feedback. Because that’s how William was back then.

Mike remembers the three-hour long conversation that ensued. He remembers dissecting William’s lyrics and discussing the chord progression. He remembers how good it felt to finally have something real in front of them. He remembers feeling excited about the progress they had made in such a short period of time. He remembers thinking that it might all work.

Without realizing he’s doing it until he stops to open a bag of chips, Mike’s tapping out the rhythm of  _Season_  against his thigh. He’s a little surprised he still knows it, considering it’s been about twenty years since they wrote it and eight since he’s played it.

It isn’t easy to stop himself from continuing his trip down memory lane as he finishes his lunch. He has to distract himself with checking his email (not that there’s anything new since he last checked) and erasing the white board for next period’s lecture.

Mike likes to think of himself as well-adjusted. And usually, he is. Most of the time, he forgets he ever lived in a bus. But, come on. Can he honestly be expected to _not_ reminisce when he’s being shoved headfirst into some romantic comedy bullshit?

The warning bell rings. Only a minute after he turns on the lights, unlocks the door, and throws his trash away, his fourth period class shuffles in. A girl with a careless smile and crooked teeth takes a seat in the front. She watches as he loosens his tie and turns on the projector. It makes him uncomfortable and it’s only because she reminds him all too much of the person he left sleeping in his bed this morning.

\--

“I thought you’d be home by four at the latest.”

Mike recognizes the tone. William is sitting at the kitchen table, his phone centimeters from his fingertips. Mike’s eyes ache and he’s a little bit dehydrated, so his head is beginning to throb. He takes off his glasses and presses his fingers into one of his eyes hard enough to see red. After replacing his glasses on his face, he responds to William. “I supervise the Debate Club on Mondays and Wednesdays and today was the first meeting. My bad.” He rubs his forehead and continues, “Chess Club on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And, on Fridays, I go to Alberto’s for tequila shots with the Spanish teacher.”

William cracks a smile. “Always tequila shots?”

“Sometimes we get margaritas and call it a night.” Mike puts his bag on the table and feels a strong obligation to ask. “Heard anything?”

William sighs and picks up his phone. He unlocks it and aimlessly thumbs through his apps. “No.”

“Bill, hey, do you want to…”

“No, I don’t. Not really.” William looks up at Mike. “I appreciate the offer, though.”

“Alright.”

Mike goes to his bedroom to change into something more comfortable than a button up and slacks. William’s suitcase is open on the bed, stuff tossed around and sifted through. Mike sees a notebook on his nightstand and an uncapped pen threatening to fall off the edge. He chooses not to mention it.

He comes back and William is still sitting at the table and pretending to be interested in the apps on his phone. Mike doesn’t know how to go about his normal evening routine with William moping around.

He almost sits across from William at the table but decides if there’s going to be a table between them again, there needs to be drinks between them too. He fetches a bottle of wine and two glasses and pours them both healthy servings.

“Wine, Mike?”

Mike shrugs but offers no explanation.

They go through a glass each before William abandons his phone and looks at Mike expectantly.

“What?”

“Are you going to tell me how you got into this teaching thing?”

Mike pours both of them another glass. “Are you going to laugh?”

“Probably.”

Mike takes a swallow. “I did a lot of tutoring when I was getting my Bachelor’s. And I really liked it. I was good at it, too.”

“What did you end up majoring in, anyway?”

“Marketing. You know, for the fucking Artist Group. Total waste of time, by the way. But I digress.” Mike holds up his palms up to William. “I minored in American History, though. Because, you know. I like American History.” Mike fingers the stem of his wine glass. “You know, with the way public school works, your degree doesn’t actually matter. As long as you have your credentials. I got lucky.”

“It’s just – it’s hard to imagine you doing anything other than playing guitar.”

“I stopped playing a long time ago.”

“Why?”

Mike takes another drink and prepares himself for a conversation he didn’t think he’d be having tonight. Hell, he didn’t think he’d ever have this conversation. He looks over his glasses at William. “Take a guess.”

“Carpal tunnel?” William smirks and takes a drink, watching for Mike’s reaction over the rim of his glass.

Mike rolls his eyes. “Exactly.” He reaches across the table and jams the bottle stopper back into the bottle, just for something to do. “Carpal tunnel.”

William looks around, as if searching for something else to talk about. Mike wants to get away from wherever they’re headed but he can’t think of anything else to say. He eventually asks William if he’s hungry and offers to make dinner.

“Wow. Wine and dinner? What’s next, Mike?” William smiles his careless, crooked smile and Mike’s stomach tightens.

Mike ignores him and rifles through his cabinets for something they could both eat. It’s been awhile since he’s gone grocery shopping though, and his cabinets are pretty bare. “I don’t have much here. Take-out?”

William pulls a contemplative face and Mike waits. William finally exhales loudly. It’s not a sigh, but a decisive breath. “What kind of take-out are we talking about?”

“Your choice.” William raises his eyebrows. “Unless you want me to pick, in which case…”

William doesn’t let Mike choose, but on Mike’s recommendation, he decides on Indian food. They both order dishes far too spicy for either of them to handle and pick from each other’s plates. Sometime after dinner and before they retire to the living room, Mike burps – William chides him; Mike ignores it – grimaces, and digs his knuckles into his chest.

“Heart burn?” William smirks. “You old man.”

“You’re like two months younger than me. You know that, right?” Mike gets Tums from one of the kitchen cabinets and chews up two giant, chalky tablets. He takes a healthy swallow of wine to wash the grit out of his mouth, even though the red wine might not actually help his heart burn. Whatever. “And I’m only thirty-nine. Shut up.”

William chuckles. “Thirty-nine’s pretty old, man.”

“Hey, you’re only as old as you feel.”

“Says the guy with heart burn and a ten o’clock bedtime.”

“I get up at like, five in the morning. I need, like, at least seven hours of sleep to deal with teenagers all day. You should know about that.” William pulls a face, the one he pulls whenever he thinks Mike is being unreasonable. “You try teaching American History to a bunch of sixteen year olds who couldn’t care less about American History. Then you can tell me how easy and nice it is to deal with teenagers all day.”

“Hey, I didn’t choose this for you. This is on you, Mike.”

“It’s not like I had any other choice.” Mike fiddles with the lid of the Tums container. “I mean, after Artist Group, I was like, okay, what else can I do? I have a degree in Marketing and I don’t want to do marketing anymore. It’s obviously not my thing.”

Tentatively, William says, “You could have gone back to doing what you do best.”

“What, drink? Smoke excessively?”

“No – what?” William looks like he’s praying for patience. “No, Mike. Make music. You know, that thing you did for like, ten years?”

“Oh.” Mike scoffs. “That wasn’t an option.”

“Why not?”

“Carpal tunnel. Remember? We just had this conversation.” Mike stands up and puts the Tums away, just to put distance between himself and William.

“Right. Carpal tunnel.”

“It’s kind of hard to play guitar when you can’t, you know, play guitar.”

William sighs. “Yes, I imagine it would be.”

“Speaking of things that are hard...” It’s a lousy transition but William doesn’t comment on it. “The couch is not working for me, man. My back’s all sorts of fucked up. I don’t want to put you on the couch but I gotta prioritize here, man.”

“I understand. Old man Carden needs his beauty rest.” Mike rolls his eyes and William chuckles. “It’s fine. I’ll take the couch. You really ought to consider getting a futon or something.”

“Yeah, well, the people who spend the night don’t usually...” Mike stops himself but it’s not hard for William to fill in the blanks. Mike tries not to look at William but out of the corner of his eye, he sees William’s face light up. “Shut up. I’m gonna get some clean blankets.”

It’s still too early for either of them to turn in, even after they do the dishes and make William’s makeshift bed. Mike could grade homework but William turns on the TV and Mike has a hard time saying no to _Breaking Bad_ reruns.

Mike waits until the end of the episode to announce he’s going to bed. William waves him off – the next episode is starting – and says a rushed _good night_. Mike smiles despite himself and heads off to his bedroom.

Halfway there, he decides he has one more thing to say to William before he retires for the night. He pokes his head back around the corner and taps the wall with his fingers. “Hey, Bill.”

William pauses  _Breaking Bad_  and gives Mike an irritated look. “What?”

“You should leave the apartment tomorrow. It can’t be fun sitting around, stewing.”

“It’s not.”

“I’ll leave the spare key on the table.”

“Cool. Thanks.”  _Breaking Bad_  is back on before Mike can even turn around.

When he crawls into bed (after he makes it, of course, because William really fucked up the sheets), he finds it smells a little too much like William. He considers changing the bedding but his eyelids fall before he can convince himself it’s a bad thing.

\--

Tuesday goes much the same as Monday, except Mike stays after to supervise the Chess Club and when he comes home, there are sandy flip flops lying beside the door and two boxes of cereal on the counter that certainly weren’t there when he left.

“Did you go grocery shopping?” Mike asks loudly, poking his head in the refrigerator. There’s a six-pack staring him in the face and he takes a bottle before inspecting the rest of his newly, albeit partially, stocked kitchen. “Thanks, man.”

“I got hungry and all you had was lettuce.” William comes into the kitchen, barefoot and pink-faced. “Which I tossed out, by the way. It was bad.”

Mike leans against the counter and twists the cap off the bottle. He chugs half the beer in one then kicks off his shoes. “Did you go to the beach or something?”

“I did. And I got sunburned.” William pouts. “And still nothing, by the way.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Hand me a beer, would you? I’ve been waiting for you to come home so I wouldn’t feel like I was drinking alone.”

Mike chuckles and hands William a beer. It’s totally normal, just two guys drinking beer. It’s probably the most normal thing William and Mike ever did together. Mike’s happy to relive a moment like this. And the silence is nice, Mike decides. Silence is always preferable to argument.

“I’m worried.”

Mike almost drops his bottle in surprise and has no idea what to say. To ask William what he’s worried about would be stupid – he already knows, anyway – and to ask why would be tactless.

Luckily, William doesn’t need prompting. “Don’t they say that, like, the first forty-eight hours are the most important? It’s been four days. I mean, the chances of finding her are probably really slim now.”

Mike hopes his tone isn’t condescending or in anyway not comforting, but he’s not banking on it. “You’re thinking of kidnapping, Bill. Evie wasn’t kidnapped; she ran away.”

William glares at Mike. “Stop.”

Mike puts his hands up defensively and then finishes his beer. “Look, if you keep nagging the police, they’ll continue to actively look for her. You just…you have to be really pushy or she’ll float away. They’ll put her on the backburner.” William looks skeptically at Mike. “Or you could go to the media. Some people do that. It’s a bit extreme, honestly, especially in the case of a runaway…”

William bangs his bottle on the counter, startling Mike into silence. “Stop saying she ran away. Fucking Christ, Mike!”

Mike opens his mouth to apologize but nothing comes out. William’s chin is quivering and it stops Mike dead in his tracks.

“She didn’t run away. She…ran off. ‘Runaway’ implies…so many things…she didn’t run from us. She ran to someone else. It’s different. She’s not a runaway. She’s just…she’s sixteen years old and has no idea what she’s doing and I just want her home.” William runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I don’t care about what she wants right now; I just want her safe at home in Chicago with me and Christine. That’s it.”

“I know.” Mike doesn’t know what else to say or do. William still looks like he’s holding a hell of a lot back. “I know.”

“I don’t expect you to actually know what any of this feels like...” William turns his eyes to the ceiling, trying to keep tears from falling onto his cheeks. The rest of his sentence gets lost as he succumbs to tears, still clutching the beer bottle.

“Okay, okay. Bill. C’mon, man, keep it together.” Mike runs his hands up and down William’s arms. It’s the first time Mike’s touched William in eight years. William chuckles and Mike knows they’re thinking the exact same thing.

He sniffs. “You’re terrible at comforting people.”

“It’s not usually my job.”

William looks away from Mike, evidently to hide a fresh wave of tears. Mike lets his hands fall from William’s arms. He wishes he was capable of more than a reassuring pat on the shoulder. He knows there’s so much more to comforting people – things like lying and hugging and cooing – but he doesn’t want to do any of those things, not really.

“Bill.”

William faces Mike, his eyes brimming with tears and snot running out of his nose. He wipes the snot away with the back of his hand. “Fuck. I haven’t done this in a long time.” He sniffs. “I’ve been trying so hard to hide how fucking scared I am.”

“She’s a Beckett. Becketts run away from stuff all the time. But they always come back.” Mike pauses; William sniffs again. “Bill, she’s gonna come home. But when she wants to and not a second sooner. She’s like you. Exactly like you.”

This doesn’t seem to make William feel any better but it doesn’t seem to make him feel any worse. Mike is content with that. He wishes he could put a bandage on William and make everything better, but he can’t. Or, at least, he can’t think of any way that he could – so he’s okay with leaving William in a neutral sort of state.

He’s left him in worse condition.

William takes a few more minutes to collect himself and Mike politely pretends not to notice. William wipes his nose with the back of his hand one last time and swallows down the last dregs of his beer. “I bought a box of macaroni and cheese. And I would like another beer.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mike and William are sitting in the living room, William stretched out on his makeshift bed and Mike curled up on the loveseat, eating macaroni and cheese and watching _Seinfeld_. They’ve both finished their second bottles of beer and as the credits roll over Jerry’s customary wrap-up monologue, William gets up and asks Mike if he wants another beer.

“Uh, no. I’ll pass. Thanks.”

William comes back with a beer and takes a swig. “You’ve always said you don’t like change but, uh, night and day, man.”

Mike looks lazily over at William, who could have very well not said anything at all. His eyes are fixed on the TV, his brow furrowed in concentration. Mike can tell William is trying to figure out what episode is next before it even starts. Within thirty seconds, he shouts, “It’s  _Cheever Letters_! I fucking love this episode!”

Mike lets the offhand comment hang in the air. He has nothing to say to William – really, he doesn’t – so he sits back and enjoys the next episode of _Seinfeld_.  _Cheever Letters_  is one of his favorite episodes but he refuses to tell William that they’re in agreement about anything. He can’t let William have that.

When the episode ends, Mike forces himself to get off the couch. He really doesn’t want to but he has homework to grade. He usually grades in front of the TV and lets the news drone on in the background, but William seems so content on the couch and he can’t stand to tear William from contentment. Not tonight, at least. Instead, Mike takes a sizable stack of homework to his bedroom and decides to grade it there.

Halfway through his third period’s homework, Mike wishes he had taken up that third beer. His third period is – how does he put this delicately? – not his smartest class, judging by their spelling and misinformation. Mike takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. There’s a knock on the door; Mike grunts and William walks in, looking a bit timid.

“I just wanted to grab my pajamas.” Mike nods and puts his glasses back on. “You look miserable.”

Mike holds out a piece of paper to William. “Read number two. Just…read it. You tell me if you can make any sense of it.”

William humors Mike and takes the paper. A smile stretches across his face as he reads it. He hands the paper back to Mike and says, “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve read it, like, twelve times in different voice inflections, trying to understand what it means and I still don’t know. I don’t think it’s English.” Mike scrawls a big, red, question mark over the short answer and moves on.

William rifles through his suitcase and pulls out his pajamas. Mike stops grading again, finding that the rest of this kid’s homework is equally, if not more, unreadable. He writes  _SEE ME_ at the top of the paper and adds it to the pile of graded homework.

“You know, it’s like, sometimes I wish I was an English teacher so I could at least fail them for turning in shit like this.”

William chuckles. “You can though, right? I mean, your class, your rules.”

Mike considers this. “Next year. I’ll keep that in mind for next year. I think my classes would revolt if I suddenly changed my grading policy.” He shakes his head and picks up another student’s homework. Over his glasses, he can see William changing into his pajamas. He has to force himself to look down.

“You almost done?”

Mike shakes his head. “I have, like, a class and a half left. I really should’ve done this during Chess Club but here we are.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Night.” William closes the door behind him. Mike notices that William hadn’t bothered to put his clothes away. He left them in a pile on the floor, almost like this was his bedroom back home. Mike chuckles and then returns to grading.

\--

Mike is dead asleep and snoring when his bedroom door opens and closes. Mike’s a pretty heavy sleeper and it takes William a few tries to wake him up.

“What?” Mike growls, his throat coated with sleep.

“Scoot over.”

Mike glares at William from over his shoulder and scoffs. “No.”

“Scoot over.”

“No.”

“Mike, your pull-out bed is super uncomfortable. There’s like a rod digging into my lower back. It’s bad, Mike.”

Mike scoffs again but does not move. “It wasn’t a problem last night.”

“It was a problem last night.”

“Deal with it, Bill. I’m trying to sleep. Leave me alone. I have work in the morning.”

“I’m gonna sit on you.”

“No, you’re not.”

Mike truly does not expect William to sit on him but William does anyway. Mike lets out a strangled scream and pushes William off of him. “Okay! Fine! Fuck!”

Mike moves over just enough so there’s room for William. He doesn’t like it at all, but William crawls under the covers and gets comfortable. And, of course, they immediately begin fighting over the sheets. It’s not really a fight, though because Mike is much stronger than William and he tugs hard on the bedding, leaving William completely uncovered.

“Mike, it’s cold in here.”

“The window is open.”

“Mike, it’s cold in here and I don’t have anything to cover myself with.”

Mike grumbles and flings the blankets over William, though he maintains a tight grip on his end to make sure William can’t tug it away from him again – and William certainly tries. He can’t seem to get as much of himself covered as he wants, though, because he moves closer to Mike under the sheets – much closer than Mike is comfortable with, if he’s honest – and snuggles into the blankets.

“Your knees are on my ass, Bill.”

“Well, Mike, your ass is on my knees.”

“This is not going to work.”

William sighs, his breath hot on the back of Mike’s neck. Mike can smell the beer there and figures William took the liberty of finishing off the six pack. That makes sense. “Stop fighting it and go back to bed.”

“I’m trying.” Mike grumbles into his pillow. “But you’re breathing in my ear.”

William tries to alter his breathing but isn’t successful. Mike stops fighting it, though, and he relaxes into the mattress once again. His breathing becomes deep and steady and he feels it’s pretty obvious he’s drifting off to sleep again but it seems William can’t help himself. “This is just like that time…”

“Shut it, Bill. I swear to God.”

“You’re so grumpy.”

“You woke me up in the middle of the night, sat on me, started spooning me, and now you won’t let me go back to sleep. Why do you think I’m grumpy?”

“I’m – I’m sorry. I’ll stop spooning you if you want.”

Mike doesn’t actually want William to stop spooning him. He doesn’t say that, though. He can’t let William have that.

“Oh, it doesn’t fucking matter. Stop talking and let me go to sleep.”

\--

Mike wakes up the next morning to find he is ass-to-ass with the last person he ever expected to be ass-to-ass with again. William doesn’t stir when Mike’s alarm goes off. He continues to snore lightly with a small, little smile on his face, like everything is okay.

Wednesday goes much like Tuesday. Mike comes home, William has another near meltdown. Mike doesn’t argue with William when William crawls into his bed. He shuts off the light and listens to the sound of his own heart beating in his throat.

Thursday goes much like Wednesday. Mike – on accident, he swears – asks William if he’s coming to bed. William responds with a sly smile. Mike tells him to shut up.

Friday. Friday is a different story.

William is awake when Mike leaves for work on Friday. Mike is fixing his tie in the mirror by the door when William comes hurdling out of the bedroom, half of his hair sticking straight up, the other half plastered to his forehead.

“Where’s the fucking fire, Bill?”

“Gotta go. Police. Evie.”

William has no time to explain and Mike understands that, but he wishes William had given him something to get him through the day. Fridays are always inattentive and unruly; most Fridays he doesn’t even bother with lecturing because he knows his classes won’t absorb a word of it. But even he couldn’t focus on teaching today. He was too busy wondering what the detective could have possibly called about, especially so early and after so much silence.

He considers calling William during his lunch break, but he has a meeting with the rest of the History department. It’s kind of important, so he pockets his phone and takes his lunch to the staff room.

Mike runs into the Spanish teacher, Señor Aguilar – Anthony – while signing himself out at the end of the day. Actually, Anthony quite literally runs into him, causing Mike to drag his arm up the whiteboard, erasing half of the time-in/time-out chart. The secretary hisses, “Mike, seriously? I just rewrote that.”

Mike apologizes and waits for Anthony to sign himself out. Anthony clicks his tongue at Mike as they leave the office and says, “I’m feeling nachos and  _cervezas_  tonight, how about you,  _mi amigo_?”

“That sounds perfect. Um, do you think it would be alright if a friend tagged along?”

Anthony squeezes Mike’s arm. “Hell yeah,  _amigo_. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”

“Great, great. ‘Cause I know he could use a beer. Five sound good?”

“Five sounds _fantástico_. See you then!”

They wave each other off and head in different directions for their cars. Mike puts his things in the passenger seat and sits for a moment. The parking lot is tight and cramped and a senior nearly backs into him, shouting a frantic and apologetic, “Oh, shit! Sorry, Mr. Carden!”

He zones out for a second, maybe two, and by the time he comes back around, his car is fenced in by a never ending line of over-privileged seniors. He sighs and pulls out his phone to call William. He supposes he ought to call him, ask him if he even wants to go out and, if so, to get his ass ready.

William answers halfway through the first ring and doesn’t even greet Mike – he launches into a top speed retelling of what happened with the detective. Mike doesn’t catch all of it: William keeps stuttering and stammering, people are honking, he’s trying to maneuver his way into the line, and halfway through William’s tale, his phone beeps, notifying him of a new text.

“Wait, wait, Bill. Stop for two seconds, okay?” Mike doesn’t wait for William to stop talking. He tosses his phone in the cup holder and forces his way into the line of cars. He picks up his phone and checks the text – it’s from Scott (the waiter), so he completely ignores it – and puts it back to his ear. “I’m sorry, man. Afterschool traffic.”

“Right, right. You didn’t catch a single word I just said, huh?”

“Sorry.” He feels bad. William probably spouted a load of good news at Mike.

William sighs. “Okay. Well, long story short, the detective thinks she’s shacking up in Long Beach with some kid named Michael Anderson. Not even surprised his name’s Michael.”

“Ha-ha.”

“They gave his parents a visit but they weren’t home. No one was, apparently. But, you know, it’s a weekday, so they figured the parents were at work. They checked with the school – Michael hasn’t shown up for a week but the office has been getting calls from his mom saying he’s sick. The detective figures the parents are covering for him now, but he’s pretty sure the anonymous tip came from his mom. Anyway. Good news.”

Mike is lost for words. That _is_ good news. And he’s happy for William and Christine and the entire Beckett-Bandy clan. They’ll be scooping Evie up any day now and they’ll return to Chicago, happy and reunited. He clears his throat. “That’s great, man. That’s great.”

“They’re gonna follow up tomorrow. You know, pay them another visit. And hopefully, that will be that and we can all just go back to our normal lives.”

“That’s great.” He sounds like a broken record but he doesn’t know what else to say. It  _is_  great, in a way. In a lot of ways. William will be gone soon. He feels selfish for wishing that anonymous tip hadn’t come in.

“Yeah. So, uh, why’d you call?”

“Oh. Um, me and the Spanish teacher are going out for nachos and beer. Want in?”

“Hell yeah I want in!” William says excitedly. “Are you kidding me, Mike? I’ve always wanted to drink with a bunch of tired, irritated teachers!”

Mike tells him he has to go – and he does. He’s finally out of the parking lot and really shouldn’t be on the phone. He hangs up and sees the text from Scott. He shoves his phone in his bag. He doesn’t have time for that. Not now.

\--

Mike doesn’t have time to change out of his work clothes and into something more comfortable and it’s only because halfway between work and home, he realized he needed to get gas. And, of course, because he was in a hurry, every single person in Santa Monica was trying to get gas at the exact same time. By the time he got back to the apartment, pushed William out of the bathroom, and took a piss, it was time to get back into the car.

The best he could do to get comfortable was remove his tie and pop the first couple of buttons on his shirt. He scowls as he rolls up his sleeves and says, “Watch me get guacamole on this.”

William chuckles and steers Mike by the shoulders into Alberto’s, insisting that he cheer up, beer is on the way.

Mike and William join Anthony in a booth close to the bathrooms. William carelessly slides into the booth after Mike, bumping his thigh against Mike’s and not even bothering to apologize. Neither of them move their legs, so both feel content to leave them touching – it’s a tight booth, anyway.

“Um, Anthony, this is William. Friend from high school. Sort of. We didn’t go to the same high school. We met when we were both in high school.” William gives him a look. Apparently this is a strange way of introducing him. Mike shrugs. “William – Anthony. Spanish teacher. You would not believe how good this guy is at foosball.”

William and Anthony get along as well as Mike could have hoped. The night is fun, careless, as nights like these should be. Mike forgets about the essays he’ll have to grade Monday night, he forgets about the phone in his pocket, he forgets that William will be going home soon.

“Dude, check your phone. It’s been vibrating nonstop since we got here.”

Mike had no idea William could feel his phone vibrating, but their thighs are touching, so he supposes that makes sense. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and sees he has ten new texts. William must be watching because he says, “Someone clearly wants to get a hold of you.”

Mike motions for William to get out of the booth so he can check his phone in private. He goes outside, sits down on a bench, and reads the texts, including the one from earlier that afternoon.

_Do you have plans this evening_

_OK so I realize youre not huge on texting but it would be nice if you could text me back once in awhile so I know Im not barking up the wrong tree_

_Wow_

_OK I think I get it_

_Fuck text me back I dont like having one sided conversations_

_Stop being a dick_

_Actually no I should have expected this_

_Clearly this just isnt going to work. Clearly_

_I mean the signs were all there I just chose not to read them. I knew you were way too good to be true. Too smart too funny too good in bed. There had to be something and of course its commitment issues. Of course because I cant get a fucking break ever_

_Im really sorry I just texted you a million times. That probably looks really pathetic and desperate_

_Im sorry. This is my fault right? Im way too clingy_

As he finishes reading the last text, another pops up.

_I just really like you, OK? Youre great and awesome and everything Ive ever looked for in a man. I really wish you would just text me back and at least confirm that youre done with me_

Mike sighs shakily and runs his hand through his hair. He really ought to reply but he has nothing to say.

_Look, Scott, man, the last few weeks have been great. We’ve had a ton of fun and I certainly don’t regret the time we’ve spent together but let’s face it. I’m 15 years older than you. You’re so incredibly young and it was a mis_

Mike deletes the text before he even finishes it. It sounds stupid and overly formal and, seriously, a text message breakup? That’s beneath him. He types out a new one and his thumb hovers over the send button for ages.

_I’m in the middle of something right now, can we talk about this later?_

He finally sends the message and puts his phone in airplane mode. One thing at a time. Tonight is about beer and nachos and baseball and laughter. There is no room for clingy waiters. He hates himself but he goes back inside and pretends like he didn’t just shatter some poor kid’s heart.

“What was that about?”

“Uh,” Mike starts as he slides back into the booth. There’s a fresh beer in front of him. He removes the lime and throws it on top of the soggy, uneaten, bottom layer of nachos. “Like an idiot, I put my cell number on my syllabus so students could get a hold of me. I tell them not to include me in mass texts but I think it sort of happens sometimes.”

William knows he’s lying but that’s only because he’s been lying to William for twenty years and William is all too familiar with his tells. Anthony accepts it as truth, though, and takes a swig of beer. “That is a surefire way to learn way too much about your students, let me tell you,  _mi amigo_.”

Anthony rattles on about the things he’s learned because a student accidentally texted the wrong person. William laughs, too long and too loudly, and Mike knows that it will soon be time to leave. William is pink in the cheeks and smiling widely at Anthony, who is glad to have such an appreciative audience. Mike takes another swallow of beer and listens in but doesn’t participate in the conversation. His mind is elsewhere, imagining the texts Scott could be sending him right now. He hates himself for not putting an end to it earlier, for giving Scott false hope, for turning off his phone so he can pretend for the night that it’s not happening.

Anthony excuses himself to go to the bathroom. Mike wishes he hadn’t because William turns to him and has that all-knowing, superior look on his face. “What was that really about?”

“Nothing important, Bill.” Mike says sternly and evenly, not breaking eye contact with William. “We should probably get going soon. Before I’m too drunk to drive, I mean.”

William looks at Mike skeptically, not at all convinced. William apparently decides to drop it, however, because he turns his attention to the baseball game playing on the widescreen mounted on the opposite wall. Neither of them can hear it, but it’s a nice distraction from the wall Mike built between them.

Anthony comes back and within seconds, so does the waiter. He takes the empty bottles and nacho platter covered in dirty napkins and limes and leaves the check in its place.

All three of them reach for the bill. Mike swats both of their hands away. “I got it. No arguments. But,” He points at Anthony, smiling, “You’re paying for tequila shots next week.”

Anthony doesn’t object; he laughs and puts his wallet back in his pocket. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

The bill is paid, the last dregs of beer are swallowed, and the three men leave Alberto’s, William ricocheting off of Mike as they walk to his car. Mike, who is not at all drunk, knows William is doing it on purpose. William is a bit tipsy, yes, definitely not safe to drive but not stumbling drunk either. Mike thinks William wants to stretch out the fun a bit. Giving Mike a hard time was always one of William’s favorite pastimes. William will probably never tire of irritating Mike; the same way Mike will probably never tire of irritating William.

Mike and William don’t talk much on the drive home. William discovers an alternative station he doesn’t completely hate, so he insists on listening to it as he calls out every street name they pass that he thinks is absolutely ridiculous. A lot of street names in Santa Monica are ocean or beach related, very uninspired and very literal. William finds it amusing.

Mike shakes his head every time William shouts, “And yet another variation of the word _ocean_!”

It’s not particularly late when they get home, but William drops off almost the second he hits the mattress. Mike figures that’s good for both of them. Mike watches TV for an hour or so and then changes into pajamas and crawls into bed beside William. Mike finds William snoring with his mouth wide open against Mike’s favorite pillow.

He watches William for a minute or two, not sure what he’s even thinking as he does so. Mike studies William’s face, thrown into relief by the light on the nightstand. William looks tired. He always looked tired, close up and in the right light, but he always hid it well under wide smiles and twinkling eyes. But now he looks exhausted, all the time, with his frown lines and crow’s feet.

Mike wonders what William would see if things were the other way around, if Mike was passed out in William’s bed, snoring open mouthed and not even worrying that he’s drooling on his former best friend’s favorite pillow.

Mike chuckles. William would probably see eighteen-nineteen-twenty-year-old Mike, still young and dumb and not at all concerned about his liver or lungs. Yeah. That’s what William would see.

Mike removes his watch and places it on the nightstand. It ticks away the time before William leaves him again and Mike absolutely hates it.

He hates himself even more for hating it.

\--

Something like two hours later, Mike wakes up to the sound of his own name being whispered into the dark. At first, it scares the hell out of him – and with reason. He lives alone, so usually no one else in there to call out his name in the middle of the night. But then he realizes it’s only William.

Mike assumes William is sleep-talking but William whispers his name again. It’s steady and coherent and he can’t pretend that he’s unable to distinguish between William’s sleep voice and William’s waking voice. Mike groans and reaches clumsily for his phone. It lights up and, sure enough, it’s only been two hours since he dropped off. “What?”

William doesn’t answer, so Mike asks again. “What, Bill?”

Silence still. Mike counts to five and asks a third time. “Bill, what do you want?”

Mike flips onto to his other side and once his eyes adjust to the low light, he finds William wide awake and staring at him. Mike blinks once, twice, three times and finally says, “Bill, for the love of God, what?”

They stare at each other awhile longer, Mike getting steadily more irritated as William stares at him, a wrinkle between his eyebrows, like he’s trying to work something out. Mike turns over with a  _hmph_ , thinking William is completely demented, only to feel William put a hand on his arm. He is about to exclaim loudly, tell William to fuck off, but he doesn’t because William pulls himself closer to Mike and shushes him softly.

Mike waits, his breath hitched in his throat. The fourth  _what?_  is barely out of his mouth when William kisses him gently on the back of the neck. William lingers there for a second longer, his breath hot on Mike’s neck, lips centimeters from the spot they kissed.

Slowly, Mike rolls over to face William, who is still staring wide eyed at him. Mike stares back, not irritated this time, but confused. The corners of William’s lips twitch up, forming a small but not at all shy smile.

Realization hits Mike square in the face. Mike gets it. For once, he completely and totally understands William Beckett. The last twenty years make sense. And he wants to call Adam and tell him that he finally gets why they were all doomed from the start.

Mike doesn’t return the smile. He can’t. William’s face falls and it’s his turn to look confused. His voice cracks when he speaks. “Di – Did I misread something?”

Mike wants to tell him that he did, that he misread a lot of things, but he can’t bring himself to. William looks embarrassed, vulnerable, even. And that’s what makes him do it. That’s what makes Mike stretch his neck to bring his lips to William’s, to taste the beer and guacamole that still linger on his breath, to touch the nape of William’s neck, to feel the goose bumps erupt under his fingertips.

Mike will swear from this day on that it wasn’t a kiss.

\--

Mike wakes up way too early Saturday morning.

Despite it being August and despite the fact that Mike lives in Santa Monica, cold air is breezing through the open window. William is curled up into a ball under the sheets and out of pity, Mike closes the window. He prefers a cold apartment but if William is that cold, he supposes the window ought to be closed.

He has to push  _like a cold day in August, I was not prepared for this_  out of his head, absolutely hating that William has a fucking line for everything. He shuts the window with a little more force than necessary.

Mike showers. Mike also jerks off in the shower but it’s pretty uneventful and thoughtless. Kind of routine, kind of disappointing. He wishes it hadn’t been – a cathartic, physical release would have been nice and cumming is almost always preferable to crying in the shower.

He towels off and then stands there, watching the mirror defog. He’s well aware that he’s being a baby by hiding out in his bathroom but whatever. He doesn’t care. He’s going to stand here for as long as he wants.

But then there’s a knock on the bathroom door and Mike realizes that he can’t occupy his bathroom for the rest of his life.

Mike opens the door and finds a half-awake William standing before him. He instinctively clutches the towel around his waist and hopes William doesn’t notice. William seems to be too tired to notice much of anything and shoves past Mike in a sleepy way.

Mike sidles out of the bathroom and closes the door behind him, because he knows William all too well and he knows he would take a piss with the door wide open because he’s too tired to close it.

Mike is stirring sugar absentmindedly into his coffee and staring at a text from Scott when a fully dressed William comes into the kitchen and tosses a notebook in front of him. It’s flipped to a page with untidy chicken scratch. Mike looks up at William, confused.

“Look this over, would you?”

Despite Mike’s hesitation and still confused face, William does not repeat himself. He pours himself a cup of coffee and sits across from Mike at the table and waits.

Mike puts his phone down and pulls the notebook closer to him. It’s hard to read – William had awful handwriting twelve years ago and by the look of things, it hasn’t improved much. A few things are scratched out, there are arrows redirecting text, and near the bottom of the page, words are tiny and mashed up and strung together like a singular, long word. He runs his fingers through his still damp hair and sets himself to reading what William set down in front of him.

William sits patiently and silently, making noise only when he takes a sip of coffee or sets his cup down on the table. Mike reads, squinting when he needs to, tracing his fingers over the words when he can’t quite follow a line.

Mike always tried to read William’s stuff objectively.  _Stuff_  because William didn’t always throw lyrics at him. Sometimes it was short stories, sometimes it was the beginnings of novellas, sometimes it was God-knows-what, William just wanted him to read it. He tried to detach himself from William and read as if he had no idea who William was or what was going on in his life. Generally, it was pretty easy. Mike always thought there was a lot more to William than William let on – but there were times when it was difficult.  _Sputter_ , for example. It was tough not to see what that one was about.

Mike reaches the bottom of the page and turns it. William doesn’t shout out to stop him, so he takes the liberty of blindly flipping through the rest of the notebook. It’s about halfway full, each page messier than the last. Mike finally puts the notebook down and says, “You’re still writing, then?”

“I’m always writing.”

Mike looks at William, whose eyes are bloodshot, probably from lack of sleep. Mike doesn’t know. Mike doesn’t care. “That’s good. This is good.”

“You think?”

“I mean, all your stuff is good, man. Needs a bit of fine tuning but it’s good.” Mike pushes the notebook across the table. “Do you want to get breakfast or do you want to stick around here until you hear from the…whoever it is that’s been calling you?”

William looks affronted and a little bit angry that Mike doesn’t want to continue their conversation. “So, are we not going to talk about it, then?”

“What is there to talk about?”

William clenches his jaw and looks like he’s about to throw his cup of coffee in Mike’s face. “ _What is there to talk about_? You know damn well what there is to talk about, Mike.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Bullshit. I know you have a lot to say to me but you’ve been biting your tongue back for God knows what reason.”

“Your daughter is missing? Do you really want to deal with me on top of all that? I mean, I’m content to keep my mouth shut for now. I can chew you out some other time.”

Silence rings between them. William still looks like he wants to throw coffee in Mike’s face. “Why don’t you just chew me out now? I mean, you haven’t done it in awhile, kind of looks like you’re itching to.”

“Fucking Christ, Bill. I’m trying to make your life easier right now. I mean, do you think it’s easy for me to let you waltz in and out of my life whenever you please? It’s hard as hell, man, and it’s not fun for me.” Mike scoffs. “I’m doing this for you because you need me right now. Not because I want to. Because you need me.”

Mike knows William’s truly angry face and it’s not the one he is wearing right now. He’s forcing anger to hide the fact that Mike hit a couple thousand nerves. But Mike doesn’t relent. Mike doesn’t care.

“And, you know what? It’s not even that. It’s like an obligation to you. Like, there was a time long ago when we would have willingly done something like this for one another but that time has passed, man. Whatever it was that we were years ago, we’re not anymore. Like, let’s face it. We don’t know each other anymore. You’re a stranger to me. You’re a stranger who has been drooling on my pillows and drinking my coffee and disrupting my life and not even considering if I give a shit anymore.”

William stands from the table and snatches up his notebook. “You give a shit, Mike. I know you give a shit because you don’t do things you don’t give a shit about. So, you can go on thinking that I don’t care about you and you can go on pretending that you don’t care about me but you kissed me, Mike. Regardless of anything else, that’s still a decision you made. That’s still something you decided to do.”

Mike doesn’t say anything for a long time. His head is filling up with everything he has ever wanted to say to William and he feels like those things are going to materialize and pour out of his eyes. He forces calm, he forces quiet, and he forces anything potentially incriminating back where it came from.

“Bill, don’t pretend you care about me.” Mike pauses, finding it difficult to keep a calm voice. “You don’t. You care about the idea of me. I think you care  _a lot_  about the idea of me. But me, myself? Me as a person? No. You couldn’t care less about me.”

William adopts a small voice, a determinedly even and calm voice. It’s terrifying, Mike has to admit. “Do – do not assume you know what I do and do not care about, Mike.”

It’s Mike’s turn to stand now. He gets up so quickly that his chair nearly topples to the ground. He jabs a finger into his chest. “I exist purely when you need me to. When you need a scapegoat, when you need a home, when you need a friend, when you need an accomplice, whatever. But the second you stop needing me, I cease to exist. You write me off, you know? Like, you don’t bother. But the second you need me, we’re best fucking friends again, the world is our oyster again, you act like we didn’t go eight years without talking. You don’t address the obvious. We’re not friends, Bill. And I don’t think we ever were. You’ve used and used me and I’ve gotten nothing in return except headaches and anger and frustration.”

William shakes on the spot. The knuckles of the hand gripping the notebook are white.

“You can’t even deny it because you know it’s true. You know I’m this thing you can go back to whenever you want but never have to stay with. I know exactly where I stand in your life.”

“Like you m-make it so f-fucking easy to stick around, M-Mike!” William smiles and shakes his head in complete disbelief. “D-do you know how d-difficult you are and how unpleasant you are to be around? You – you are so stubborn and – and m-mean and t-tactless. You m-make it very d-difficult, M-Mike.”

Mike says nothing. He knows William is right. But he can’t let William have that. He won’t.

William takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. He runs a hand through his hair and down the side of his face. “I just d-don’t understand where any of this is coming from, Mike.”

Mike gestures to the bedroom in exasperation. “Last night, man. I realized so much about our relationship – so much about _you_ – last night. And I realized I’m done with this. I’m done being temporary. I’m not going to be something you can toss aside once you’re done with it.”

“Is that…? Is that what you honestly…? You still don’t get it?” William stands with his mouth open, lost for words. After painfully long moments of confused and infuriated silence, William finally scoffs and throws his hands up. “Fine. I’m done.”

William storms off and within minutes, comes back with his suitcase in tow. “I can’t handle this anymore.” William shakes his head jerkily. Mike thinks he looks a bit deranged. “And – and you were right. I didn’t need to hear that. I have enough on my plate. So, thank you, Mike. Seriously. Thank you. Thanks a lot.”

William shakes as he gives Mike a sardonic, little smile. It’s unbecoming of him.

“You know, Mike, no one else can derail me like you can.” Mike’s not sure he knows what that means. “I never thought that was something I was going to miss, let alone need.”

He waits a moment longer, perhaps to give Mike one last chance to apologize, perhaps because he doesn’t really want to go. But Mike doesn’t apologize. Mike doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even unlock the door for William. He stands sentinel as William unlocks the door for himself and leaves.

The door closes behind him with a click. Mike gives it a minute and then, silently, he locks the door. He doesn’t shout, he doesn’t curse, he doesn’t do anything except stare at the door, his hands deep in his pockets.

Mike figures his Saturday can’t get any worse. But then he checks his phone again and sees another text from Scott.

_I get off work at 12 today. You know where to find me_

Mike sighs. Fuck.

\--                         

_You know where to find me_

Mike knows exactly where to find Scott. They’ve been meeting at this park for awhile now. It’s about halfway between their apartments and that’s what’s important. Mike feels weird driving there now, knowing that he will be going home alone after this meeting and that he probably won’t visit the park ever again.

Finality is a funny thing.

Scott is sitting on a bench at the edge of the park, smoking a cigarette. He looks tired, about as tired as Mike has ever felt. Mike sits next to him and clears his throat.

Scott grinds his cigarette into the ground by Mike’s feet and straightens. “Well.”

Mike doesn’t want to hurt Scott. And he tells Scott that. Scott snorts. “No, seriously, Scott. I really don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you at all.”

“We’re past that already.”

“I’m sorry.”

They both stare ahead. The park is crawling with children and caretakers. It’s noisy and Mike finds himself watching a seemingly endless line of kids sliding down the park’s big, banana yellow slide.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re breaking up with me or what?” Scott sounds a lot like William. A cold gust of air blows right through Mike and for a second, he finds it difficult to breathe. “No, let me guess. I’m ‘too young’ and ‘can do so much better’, right?”

Mike was going to say that. He was going to open with that. “Well, both of those things are true.”

“Bullshit, Mike. My age wasn’t an issue a month ago. My age was never an issue.”

Both of them are still facing forward, talking into the wind rather than to each other. It makes things a little easier.

“God’s honest truth, Scott? I never wanted to be in a relationship with you. I told you I didn’t want to be in a relationship with you. And, if I remember right, you said the same. You told me you didn’t want to be in a relationship either.”

“I lied.”

Mike sighs. “Well, I didn’t. I didn’t want a relationship then and I don’t want one now. There – there is a reason I am nearly forty and not married.”

“Being scared of commitment isn’t a reason; it’s an excuse.”

Mike chooses his next words carefully. “I do not thrive in relationships with other people.”

“What you mean to say is that you drive people away with your selfishness and general aura of being an asshole?” Scott finally looks at Mike. He’s wearing a sardonic smile that’s unbecoming of him. Mike feels yet another blow to his stomach.

“There is no way you could make me feel worse than I already do, so stop trying.” Mike hopes this next part doesn’t sound cold but he doesn’t count on it. “Look, I can’t give you what you need and you’re giving me what I don’t want. It – it’s not going to work. It’s not going to work at all.”

“There’s nothing I could say, is there?”

Mike shakes his head. “I mean, I don’t know what to tell you.”

Scott nods and swallows hard. “Well, um, I guess that’s it then.”

“Yeah.”

Scott stands. “It’s been…”

Mike stands as well. “Yeah.”

Scott clears his throat. “I’ll see you around then.”

Mike bites back the third  _yeah_  and nods instead. Scott shakes his head and brushes past Mike, leaving behind a faint impression of tobacco and maple syrup.

\--

Mike goes back to his apartment and for the first time in a week, he’s completely alone. He never thought he would resent that.

When he shuffles into his room, Mike half expects to find William splayed out on his bed, tangled in the sheets. But it’s only a messy bed, no sign that William was ever there at all. Mike groans and falls face forward onto the mattress. He breathes in, William’s scent intermingled with the smell of laundry detergent and dryer sheets. Part of Mike wants to burn the sheets but the other part, the bigger part, never wants to change them.

The fact that he even thinks that makes him get up and change the sheets. And while doing so, he hopes he finds something of William’s lost among the bedding, so he can have an innocent reason to call him again. But there’s nothing there. William left nothing behind.

Nothing except for Mike, that is.

\--

On Sunday, Mike gets a single text from William. It comes in the afternoon while Mike is yet again trying to decipher some third period nonsense. He doesn’t even look up when he hears the alert, let alone reach for his phone. It’s probably his brother or Adam and therefore not very important. He continues to power through the stack of homework before him.

As the day drags on, he forgets about the text altogether. By nightfall, Mike’s phone beeps at him, telling him his battery is low. Only then does he put his red pen down. He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes, which are tired and dry from hours of scanning and reading three period’s worth of illegible short answers. He blindly watches the red light blink for a moment, puts his glasses back on, and gets up to plug in his phone.

The screen lights up and reveals William’s forgotten text after Mike plugs his phone into the wall charger. Mike’s heart sinks.

_Found Evie. Leaving tomorrow._

Mike opens the text to respond but can’t think of anything to say. The anger he had been harboring against William had melted away by Saturday night. This was a new record for him. Anger and forgiveness in a single day. Mike saw this as maturation.

The cursor blinks back at Mike.

Mike decides the text is almost a friendly gesture, sort of like a white flag. But not quite. William didn’t have to tell him about Evie or when he was leaving. Mike figures the text is William’s way of telling him there’s still time for Mike to apologize.

Regardless of what William’s true intentions might be, Mike bristles at the idea of apologizing to William. Eyes blurred with anger and maybe something more physical, more liquid, Mike types a one-word text to William. He figures he’ll regret it later but the compulsion is too strong to ignore.

_Good._

Mike hopes William understands that he means _good_ to both things. Good that he found Evie and good that he’s leaving. Good that he’s finally getting the fuck out of Mike’s life.

Mike knows the message is well received when William responds seconds later with a scathing  _Fuck you_. William’s said it to him enough times that Mike can read the text in William’s voice. He can even picture the way William’s mouth forms around the words, how his lips purse before it rolls off his tongue and how they stay slightly parted after he’s said it.

Mike doesn’t feel nearly as good as he thought he would.

\--

Months go by without word from William. Mike isn’t surprised. He’s surprised he’s still a little angry about everything, but the silence is nothing short of predictable. William probably thinks he’s punishing Mike by cutting off all contact. And if that  _is_  what William’s thinking, well, he’s not wrong.

Mike tries to keep busy. It’s not too difficult. He teaches all day long, goes home and grades homework, catches up on the news, and goes to bed. The weekends aren’t too bad either. He spends Saturdays and Sundays nursing hangovers, running errands, grading papers – teacher things.

It’s during his lunch break when his mind is most idle. He used to revel in the forty-five-minute silent oasis between third and fourth period. If he played his cards right, he didn’t have to see or talk to any of his students or any of the other teachers. But now, this side of August, it’s tortuous. He resorts to keeping his classroom door open during lunch in hopes that his students will harass him the entire time, preventing him from dwelling on memories of William.

Mike realizes this is a mistake near the end of September. Making himself sort of accessible sparks curiosity in his students. Before he knows it, the girl with the careless smile and crooked teeth who reminds him all too much of William slides a well-loved copy of  _Almost Here_  she probably found at Goodwill across his desk at lunch one day. He feigns confusion and she asks, “Why didn’t you tell us you were in a band?”

Truthfully, he isn’t surprised when the album starts circulating around the school. It’s pretty irritating though – by the end of the month, he can’t get a moment to himself because his students keep badgering him about being a rock star and asking him why he doesn’t grow out his hair again.

He scoffs when his students start calling him  _Former Rock Star Mr. Carden_  because he never saw himself as anything more than a kid in a band.

By mid-October, the novelty of calling him  _Former Rock Star Mr. Carden_  wears off and his students start calling him  _Santi_  instead. The other teachers see it as disrespectful but Mike knows better. It’s a term of endearment and his students use it affectionately.

It only takes a week for the faculty to lighten up and start calling him  _Santi_ too, though only in the staff room and well out of earshot of the students. Anthony, the Spanish teacher, finds this new nickname particularly amusing, and starts calling Mike  _Señor Santi_ , even in front of students. Only in front of the students, actually. And every single time, a blush creeps up the back of Mike’s neck and the corners of his lips twitch upward. Soon after, their Friday night tequila shots turn into Friday night dinner and tequila shots. Mike’s not quite sure how that happens, but he thinks he likes it.

Memories of the week with William start to dissolve by Halloween. One of the other American History teachers quits unexpectedly and Mike has to pick up two extra class sections, one of which is an AP class. The AP class ask so many complex questions – in class, during lunch, and during the fifteen minutes between the final bell and the start of afterschool activities. They hunt him down in the halls and ask him multipart questions about things he really has to think about. He actually ends up storing away some of their questions because they’d make great essay prompts for his other classes. He’s so busy coming up with new ways to challenge them that he doesn’t have the energy to spend more than a few seconds thinking about William.

The Debate Club win their first match in early November. Mike couldn’t be more proud of them. The Chess Club isn’t faring nearly as well and Mike feels partially to blame. They’re enthusiastic and they really appreciate the game but they’re not very competitive. Mike doesn’t understand how anyone could be content with not winning but by mid-November, he stops trying to force his competitiveness on them. He lets them sit in his room afterschool and play chess because that’s what they want to do. It makes them happy and, in return, it makes him happy. When did he get so soft?

Mike celebrates Thanksgiving with Anthony. It just sort of happens. Anthony asks Mike what his Thanksgiving plans are in passing and when Mike tells him he doesn’t have any, Anthony doesn’t hesitate to invite him to his house for dinner. A little stupidly, Mike assumes it’s only going to be him and Anthony, so when he arrives at Anthony’s house with a single bottle of wine, he’s more than a little surprised to be greeted by the entire Aguilar family. Mike wants to turn around and leave because this is all starting to feel way too intense, but Anthony pulls him through the doorway and begins introducing Mike to every single person packed in the house.

Mike’s never had tamales for Thanksgiving, let alone homemade tamales paired with  _salsa fresca_  and warm tortillas. He’s pretty sure there’s no way he can go back to store-bought tamales and Anthony makes sure he won’t have to – not in the near future, at least. He sends Mike home with at least a pound of tamales and a swift kiss on the cheek. The spot burns hot on Mike’s face as he drives home, and it continues to burn well into the night. He has the rest of Thanksgiving break to dwell on it and he does. He wonders why it feels so strange to him.

Life slows down between Thanksgiving and winter break. He celebrates his fortieth birthday alone. He doesn’t resent that. He likes being alone. His birthday gift to himself is not grading any homework. At school on Monday, his students give him a really nice card they all put together and the faculty surprise him with a cake. He feels loved and content and hangs the card up on his refrigerator.

Mike finds a rhythm and sticks to it. All of his classes are freaking out about midterms but his head is clear. They almost revolt when he reveals he’s giving them a multipart midterm. Some complain to administration but he’s not shaken. He focuses on getting them through it. He’s been giving them the tools they need to pass all semester long. They’re all capable of getting at least B’s, even his third period class. They’ve come a long way since the beginning of the semester. He’s proud of them.

On the last Friday of the semester, Anthony asks Mike over for dinner. He waits until they get to the parking lot to ask and when he does, he’s shy and doesn’t look Mike in the eyes. Mike’s been grading midterms all day long – grades are due by Monday and he doesn’t want to spend his entire weekend grading – so he’s tired and grouchy. He kind of wants to say no, but this seems to be important to Anthony. Mike sees Anthony’s flushed cheeks and thinks maybe dinner and good company will make him feel better. He agrees (he hopes he sounds enthusiastic) and Anthony’s eyes light up. It doesn’t make Mike feel anything at all. He wonders why that is.

It’s a good date, Mike supposes. There’s dinner and wine and conversation – it’s everything a perfect date should be.

They end up drinking too much and by the end of the night, Anthony won’t let Mike go home. Mike puts up a fight because he knows himself well enough to know that if he stays, they’ll end up fucking. And Mike doesn’t want that. Not deep down, at least. He doesn’t want to start something with Anthony that he doesn’t plan on finishing.

Mike drunkenly insists he’s not too drunk to drive home and tries to explain to Anthony that it’s for the best that he leaves. But Anthony puts his foot down and makes him stay.

So Mike stays. And to no one’s surprise, they have sex. Mike doesn’t feel good about it at all.

The problem is that they both have internal clocks set to about five o’clock in the morning, so Mike doesn’t even get a chance to sneak away. When Anthony realizes Mike’s awake, he rolls over and asks if Mike wants to get breakfast. And Mike agrees. How could he not?

The other problem is that they have sex again after they come back from breakfast.

As Mike is pulling his pants on, he says to Anthony, “I told you this would happen.”

A lazy smile stretches across Anthony’s face. “Tell me why that’s such a bad thing.”

“It just is, okay?”

“Mike, please.”

Mike looks at Anthony, still lying naked in the bed. Anthony smirks and Mike buckles his belt. He starts looking for his shirt and socks and shoes but he gets so frustrated with Anthony’s nonchalant demeanor that he sits on the edge of the bed, puts his head in his hands, and sighs.

Anthony crawls to the end of the bed, wraps his arms around Mike’s bare chest, and rests his chin on Mike’s shoulder. Mike wants to both shove Anthony away and turn around and kiss him.

“Santi…”

Mike twists away from Anthony and redoubles his efforts to find the rest of his clothing.

“Mike…why is this so bad?”

Mike’s getting a bit tired of repeating himself. “I don’t know. It just is.”

Anthony sighs. “Your shirt is in the living room.”

Mike glares at Anthony before leaving to get his shirt. He buttons the shirt as he walks back to the bedroom, careful to ignore Anthony, who is still at the end of the bed, still naked, and still looking like he needs an explanation from Mike.

Mike finds his socks and shoes and struggles to get them back on his feet.

“You’re actually leaving.”

Mike looks at Anthony with wide eyes. “Yeah.”

“ _Increíble_.”

“I don’t know why that’s hard to believe.”

“I didn’t think you’d be like this.”

Mike throws his arms wide, one of his shoes still in his hand. “Why do people not expect me to be this way? What don’t people understand about, ‘I’m a mess; you don’t want anything to do with me’?” Anthony raises his eyebrows. “I don’t stick around in the morning, man. I don’t do boyfriends, I don’t do relationships, I don’t do long term. Not anymore. I get in, I get out.”

“Come and go?”

Mike nods. “Come and go.”

Anthony studies Mike, long and hard. Mike is still holding one of his shoes. He feels lopsided.

“What about William? How does he factor into this equation?”

The question comes out of left field and Mike has no idea how to deal with it. It’s as if Anthony got up and hit him. Mike stammers. “He – he – William has nothing to do with this.”

Anthony looks disbelieving. “He’s not just a friend from high school, is he?” Mike says nothing. His heart is hammering in his chest and he can’t breathe. “You two have a lot more history than that.”

Mike shakes on the spot. He can’t help himself but his eyes are welling with tears. Really. When did he become so fucking soft? He sniffs and lets out a ragged breath. “No. We don’t mean anything to each other.”

Mike finally puts on his other shoe, goes around to Anthony’s nightstand, and grabs his watch. As he’s buckling it around his wrist, he says, “And fuck you for bringing him up.”

“This has been about him the entire time, hasn’t it? You’re killing time until he comes back.”

Yet again, Mike says nothing. He forms a fist around the keys in his pocket. They slice into his palm and the feeling is more than welcome. It takes him out of the moment and gives him an excuse to focus on something other than the all-knowing look in Anthony’s eyes.

He pulls his fist out of his pocket and blood drips onto the carpet by his feet. He curses under his breath and squeezes his hand around his keys even tighter.

Anthony springs up and wrenches the keys out of Mike’s hand and throws them aside. “Stop it, Mike. Stop it. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

Anthony drags Mike by the wrist to the bathroom, where he runs Mike’s hand under cold water. He glares at Mike in the mirror. Mike glares back, wincing a little as the water hits the cuts dotting the palm of his hand.

They continue to glare at each other in the mirror until the water runs clear. Anthony hands Mike a towel and as Mike is drying his hand, Anthony leaves to put on some underwear. Mike tosses the towel in the sink and thanks Anthony when he comes back.

“Let me see.”

Mike holds out his hand and Anthony takes it. He looks at Mike’s hand and says, “These aren’t that bad. You should wrap your hand though.”

Mike retracts his hand. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Anthony rolls his eyes – not in an amused way. “Well. You were so keen on leaving so…”

Mike nods, understanding he’s been dismissed, and goes to collect his keys from Anthony’s bed, which left faint blood smears on the sheets. He puts them back in his pocket and stares down at the drops of blood soaked in the carpet. “Sorry about the blood.”

Anthony folds his arms over his chest. Apparently this is _not_ what Mike should be apologizing for. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Coldness doesn’t suit Anthony but Mike supposes he deserves it. He collects the rest of his things and leaves. It doesn’t matter much. Winter break is three weeks long. That’s enough time for the unpleasantness between them to sort itself out.

\--

It takes Mike much longer than usual to get home. Traffic is partially to blame. But he also spent a good twenty minutes in a gas station parking lot, debating whether or not he should buy a pack of Marlboros. Ultimately, he doesn’t, knowing full-well how easy it would be for him to get hooked again. It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. An exercise in self-control, or something.

When he pulls into his assigned parking spot back at his apartment, he swallows his pride and checks his phone. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Maybe a text from Anthony. It doesn’t matter much, though. His phone’s dead. He has no idea when that happened.

Mike trudges up the stairs to his apartment, ready for a hot shower and a nap. Instead, he gets William.

He’s sitting on Mike’s doormat, knees bent almost to his chin (how?), doing something on his phone. Mike stares down at him, finding it difficult to breathe.

William looks up and doesn’t smile. “Good morning. Help an old man up, would you?” He holds his arms out and in a daze, Mike pulls him to his feet. William brushes dust off his pants. “Sorry. I would have called but I know you wouldn’t have answered.”

Mike finds his voice. “My phone’s – my phone’s dead anyway, so...”

William gives Mike a once-over. He sees Mike’s untidy hair, his rumpled shirt, his wrinkled slacks. William’s eyes linger on Mike’s neck, where he’s fairly certain a hickey is blooming. William doesn’t say anything and the silence makes Mike self-conscious. He rubs the spot on his neck William is so keen on. William looks displeased. Mike doesn’t know why that is.

Mike’s eyes travel down to William’s duffle bag. “You planning on staying here or something?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

William shrugs, picks up his bag, and says, “I don’t like where we left things.”

Mike’s heart jumps. He looks down at the doorknob and sees his tired, warped face in its reflection. “Okay.”

He unlocks the door and lets them both inside. William places his duffle bag by the door but leaves his shoes on. He’s a little more guarded and calculating, like he’s worried he’s going to make a mistake.

Mike puts his keys, dead phone, and wallet on the kitchen table and asks if William wants a drink.

“It’s, like, ten in the morning, Mike.”

Mike shrugs and grabs a beer from the refrigerator. He holds one out for William and after hesitating, William takes it. Even though it’s a screw top, Mike has to use an actual bottle opener to pop the lid off his beer because his hand is still sore. The bottle is cool against the cuts and helps bring down the swelling. William notices Mike’s contented sigh as he palms the bottle and leans against the counter.

“What happened to your hand?”

Without a word, Mike holds out his hand for William to see. He doesn’t expect William to take his hand and trace the cuts with his finger. Mike winces and retracts his hand. “Hey!”

“Sorry.”

They don’t speak again until both of their bottles are empty. It isn’t at all comfortable. They both put their empty bottles down on the counter at the same time, the sound of glass on the tile countertop reverberating off the walls. William looks at Mike and Mike looks at William.

“Why are you here?”

William opens his mouth but all that comes out is a small, choking noise.

“I mean, what’s your excuse this time? What do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything from you, Mike.”

Mike snorts. “Sure.”

“I just – I don’t like where we left things.”

“So you said.”

“Mike.” William stares at Mike, exhaustion etched in every line of his face. “Just – stop. Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop being so fucking short with me.”

“What do you expect from me, Bill?”

William sighs, heavy and long. “I don’t know anymore. I just don’t want…I don’t want us to not talk for another seven years and eight months.”

Mike raises his eyebrows. “But who’s counting, right?

William ignores the jibe. “I’m not doing that again.” He pauses and shakes his head. “You could have called, Mike.”

“You could have, too.”

William chews on his lip. “I didn’t have anything to say to you.”

“And what makes you think I did?”

“Mike, you always have something to say.”

Mike looks down at his cut up hand and smirks. “I guess that’s true.” Mike looks up again. “It was something stupid, wasn’t it? The fight that started our eight-year silence, I mean.”

William seems surprised and chokes back a laugh. “I don’t even remember what it was about.”

“I’m sure it was stupid. It’s always stupid.”

“Would you call that last one stupid?”

On any other day, that question would be a challenge. But Mike can tell that William isn’t looking for a fight. It’s a genuine question and William looks like he wants an equally genuine answer in return. Mike’s tired, anyway. He’s been fighting for too long.

“No.” Mike says, an edge to his voice. “I wouldn’t call it stupid.”

William nods. “I wouldn’t either.”

Silence. Mike wishes he had another beer but he doesn’t want to disturb the stillness of the scene before him. He glances sideways at William, who is staring down at his worn and scuffed shoes. William looks up and catches Mike’s sideways stare.

“Mike. I love you.” Mike rolls his eyes. It’s a reflex. Or a defense mechanism. Maybe both. “I’m dead serious, Mike. I love you.”

This isn’t the first time William’s said _I love you_ to Mike, but it _is_ the first time it’s caught Mike off guard. William always let _I love you_ s slip after long nights of drinking or after they came off stage, sweaty and tired and falling over each other. _I love you_ was part of William’s daily vocabulary; it was something he said so often that it held no more significance than a _hello_ or a _goodbye._ They were just words to William.

But this _I love you_ struck Mike as more than a rushed sentiment at the end of a phone call. William’s chewing on his bottom lip again, a nervous tick, waiting for Mike to speak. Mike has to use what little energy he has left to keep his face straight. His heart is beating hard against his ribcage. He’s sure William can hear it. How could he not? He’s standing so close, only a foot away. Mike could reach out and hold him. William wouldn’t push him away, not now. Not after…

Mike’s brain screams at him to say it back, to give William exactly what he wants. It’s not like it would be a lie. But that kind of information is leverage Mike can’t let William have. He’s not going to let William have that kind of power over him. Not right now.

“What am I supposed to do with that, Bill?”

“Say it back.” It’s a childish wish. William’s voice breaks. He’s scared he’s made a mistake, said something wrong. “Please.”

Mike shakes his head. “How can you expect me to believe that?”

William’s breath catches in his throat. “Because it’s true.”

“Is it though?”

Tears well in William’s eyes. Mike wishes he hadn’t seen that. It makes withholding his _I love you too_ a million times harder. William’s nostrils flare and the first tear drops. “Y-yes. How – how could you ask something like that?”

Mike furrows his brow and bites the inside of his cheek. “Bill, I – I don’t want to be your second choice anymore.”

He doesn’t mean to say it. He never wanted anyone to know that always being William’s second choice bothered him. Hell, he didn’t want anyone to know he even noticed. But the words come tumbling out of his mouth anyway. He wishes he could take them back. They leave him vulnerable and open and he hates that William knows.

“I don’t – you’ve _never_ been my second choice, Mike. I’ve loved you since we were teenagers.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

William is quiet, his nostrils flaring in effort to keep tears from sneaking past his lashes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

William shakes his head and shrugs. “I thought there was no way you’d like me the way I liked you, so I just – I put my feelings on the backburner. Probably to protect myself. I don’t know, Mike. I just – I just didn’t. I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. And…I don’t know.”

Mike stares at William for an inordinate amount of time. He never noticed them until this very moment, but now that he’s taking time to look at William and see him not for the boy he used to be but for the man he is now, Mike can see the laughter lines etched deep around William’s mouth. Even with wet eyes and the corners of his lips turned down, William can’t disguise years of too loud, too long laughter. Laughter they shared. 

Mike doesn’t want to lose that. Not again.

“You have to make a decision. Right now.”

“Mike.”

“I’m serious, Bill. Right now. Me or…not me. I’m either a permanent installation in your life or not at all. No more meaningless week-long visits.” Mike gestures to William’s duffle bag near the door. “No more eight-year silences. No more coming and going. You’re here or you’re not. I’m not gonna do this summer again.”

“Mike…I…Mike, you know I can’t. I have Christine and – and Evie. My family. I – I can’t.”

“Then why’d you come back?”

“I – I don’t know. I just – I had to tell you and I thought – I don’t know, Mike, I thought it would change things.”

Mike rubs his eyes under his glasses. “You thought it would change things? You thought you could come here and say ‘I love you’ and…what? Suddenly you wouldn’t have a family to go back home to?”

William purses his lips. “Please don’t do that.”

“What did you expect to change?”

“Maybe I didn’t expect anything to change!” William blurts out, throwing his arms up. “Maybe you’ve been right this whole time and I’m just a piece of shit who thinks I can just – just – fucking come into your life and fuck everything up. Maybe you’re right.”

Mike sighs and waves his hands. “I don’t want this to turn into an argument. I don’t want this to be a ‘who’s right, who’s wrong’ thing. It’s not about that. Let’s not go there. I don’t want to fight with you anymore.”

“Don’t you wish things could be different, though? Tell me I’m not alone in that.”

Mike gapes for a second, experiencing a disconnect between his brain and his mouth he hasn’t felt since he stopped smoking pot. When his mouth finally catches up to his brain, he says the wrong thing. Again. “Of course I do.” _Fuck._ “But it’s not gonna happen, so I don’t think it’s a necessary for us to sit here and talk about it. I don’t.”

He can tell by the look on William’s face that this was a callous thing to say. But he’s thinking ahead. It’s a preemptive strike. If they get into talking about the hypothetical future, one they sure as hell can’t make happen, they’re going to end up exactly where they started eight years ago. And that’s what got them here. It’s not a cycle he wants to get stuck in again.

“Look, Bill, I’m sorry. I really am.”

William hugs Mike. It’s unexpected. Mike doesn’t know what to do with his arms or his body or his head or anything. He stands there for a moment, fixed in time, wondering how they got here. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to him, if he’s honest.

But Mike doesn’t fight it. He holds his breath and takes inventory of every single point of contact between their bodies. In the silence, because William seems to be holding his breath too, Mike’s watch ticks away the time before William leaves him again. Maybe for the last time. Mike should hate it. Maybe he does. But this feels different. This feels okay. It’s on his terms this time. If William leaves – and he will, because that’s the right thing to do and William usually does the right thing, even if it doesn’t feel like the right thing – it’s because Mike stood his ground. It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. An exercise in looking out for his best interest for once, or something.

Mike finally wraps his arms around William. He feels exactly the way Mike remembers. And Mike realizes, grasping at long-forgotten memories now dredged up by the heaviness of William against his chest, that he wishes he could change his mind. He hates that he has to let go.

But he knows it’s for the best. They both do.


End file.
